Dead Man's Hand (28 page)

A sob surprised him. He stifled it, even though no one was there. God, how'd he get so down? He needed a hit, settle his nerves.

He scooted sideways on the couch until he could reach the end table where he'd left his supply of horse. Beautiful black tar, a big gooey lump of it. He put the dragon down next to it, smeared a hit on the tin foil, and picked up the lighter.

Took a couple of tries but couldn't get the flame going—his hand was shaking. Annoyed, he took a firmer grip on the lighter and gave it a hard stroke, then held the flame under the foil until the smoke began to rise and curl. He sucked it in and felt it spread out through his head like maple syrup, and with it the bliss he craved.

He sighed with pleasure. The pink dragon watched him with its googly eyes. He giggled. Chasing the dragon.

When there was no more smoke he put the foil and lighter down and leaned back on the couch, drifting pleasantly. After a while, he sat up and reached for the phone. Had to call Connie. Tell her the dragon was coming.

It rang a long time before she picked up. Oops, he'd forgotten to check what time it was. Oh, well.

“Yes?” she said in a sleepy voice. “Who is it?”

“Bunny, it's your daddy. Don't hang up.”

“Daddy? Daddy's dead.”

“Yeah, well. Haven't you ever heard of ghost phone calls?” He laughed awkwardly. “It's really me, Bunny. I just called to tell you I miss you and I love you.”

She was silent for a long minute. “Where are you?”

“I ah—well, you probably won't believe it. I'm in Atlantic City.”

“Not heaven, huh?”

“Nope. Closer to hell.”

She laughed, and the sound rained through him and washed him clean of fear. He put his hand on the pink dragon, soft and fuzzy, then closed his eyes.

“I love you, Bunny. I wish I could come see you.”

“Oh, Daddy.”

“Listen, you watch out for that Griffy bitch, all right? Get a good lawyer.”

“I'll be OK, Daddy. Really. You don't have to worry.”

“I'm sending you a present. It's nothing big, just a little reminder so you'll know this wasn't just a dream.”

“What is it?”

“A little pink dragon. A magic one.”

“Magic?”

“Well, maybe. Maybe's it's just a toy.”

He was fuzzy. Not making sense, he knew. Better shut up before he made a fool of himself with his daughter.

“I'll let you go, Bunny. Sorry I woke you up.”

“It's OK. It's … good to hear your voice.”

Ned's throat tightened and he felt a tear threatening, rubbed at his eye to get rid of it. “I miss you,” he said again. His voice was getting ragged.

“Miss you, too.”

“Maybe I'll come see you in a few days.”

She didn't say anything. That was too much, probably. A phone call was one thing, but to have your dead dad come walking in the door…

“OK, bye,” he said. “Love you, Bunny.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

He didn't hang up. Instead he listened until he heard the click of her disconnecting, then sat with the receiver in his hand, staring numbly at Atlantic City glittering outside the picture window.

 

 

 

 

A
rnold sat at the bar, a glass of soda in front of him, and watched the news on the television hanging overhead. It was witch news, everything you wanted to know about what was happening in the magical underworld. Advertisements for the Black Queen Poker Challenge were interspersed with the news stories. Arnold hid a smirk.

Quite a machine Penstemon had here. The Black Queen was a golden goose.

He waited until he was the only one in the bar, which took a good hour or more even though it was quite late. He had been at the poker table for several hours after ditching Weare and the girls, long enough to win the stake he'd decided he'd need.

Finally, when there was no one else in the place, he beckoned the bartender over.

“Another drink?”

“No. I have a question.” Arnold laid a hundred dollar chip on the bar between them. “I need someone highly skilled at magic. I imagine that sort comes in here now and again.”

The bartender snorted. “Try finding a customer here who isn't.”

“I'm not.” Arnold caught his gaze and held it. “This person must also be discreet.”

“I wouldn't try to cheat, if I were you. Penstemon is no fool.”

“I'm aware of that.” Arnold smiled. “I'm no fool either. No, this is a … side bet. Nothing to do with the game.”

Arnold laid a second chip beside the first, then a third. The bartender gazed at them and licked his lips.

“I can find you someone. Hang on.”

Arnold finished his drink while the man was on the phone. A short while later, a tall, gangly woman entered the lounge and came over to him. She was hook-nosed, with long, ratty hair that looked black until it caught the light, when it glinted with dark green highlights. She wore black trousers that hung limp from her bony hips and a frilly red blouse that clashed with her hair. A dozen mismatched bangle bracelets jangled on one wrist. She carried an enormous patchwork purse. Arnold resisted the inclination to sneer.

She sat on the stool next to Arnold's and gave him an appraising glance. “You look taller on TV.”

He ignored this. “I understand you're an expert?”

“I'm the best. And I ain't cheap.”

Arnold stood and left another chip on the bar. “Let's walk.”

 

 

 

 

J
ames woke up on the sofa, where he'd spent most of the night drinking his way through a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label from the bar in his suite. He sat up stiffly, blinking, wondering what time of day it might be. The suite was so quiet. No sounds reached it from outside, only the hum of various machines.

His glance fell on the curtained windows and his stomach turned uneasily at the mere thought of looking out. He did not want to be reminded of how preposterously high in the air this room was, or to go near the edge of that precipitous drop with only a bit of glass between him and it.

There was light glowing through the curtains, so he guessed it was daytime. He glanced at the electric light on the table nearby. Always the same, night or day. He wasn't sure he liked this modern world.

Stumbling into the bathroom to relieve himself, his attention caught on the shower. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub, turned the water on to pour warm and steamy over him, used the miniature bar of soap to scrub himself and his hair. His head was throbbing a bit, and the hot water eased it some, pouring on his scalp in an endless waterfall.

Some modern things were good, he conceded. Endless hot water at your fingertips, without any lighting fires or filling kettles, was one of them.

Much refreshed, he got dressed again and went out to use the phone to order breakfast. There was a heap of written information on the desk and it took him a while to find the room service menu and then the directions for using the phone. Finally he managed to place a call and order eggs and bacon, sausage and pancakes, and a pot of coffee.

There was a motion picture box in the room. Out of curiosity and to pass the time waiting for his breakfast, he played with the control box until he got the picture box to work, but he soon shut it off again. It was too loud, and the pictures moved too fast. Made him dizzy.

Strange that he should feel so out of place today, when yesterday he'd been happy to indulge himself in every way that offered. He thought about the gal who'd come here with him—Charlene? He couldn't even remember her name, and though he'd enjoyed every minute he'd spent with her he had no desire to do it again.

He felt lonely. He wanted his own kind. The other players weren't like him. No one here was of a like mind with him. Sebastian had been the closest thing to it, probably, but they hadn't really had a chance to get acquainted, and now the riverboat gambler was gone.

Breakfast arrived and James ate it in silent solitude, feeling better afterward. He decided he'd better get out of the suite, or else he'd end up moping here all day and putting himself in a foul mood. Not good if he wanted to win this tournament.

A stroll outside might do him good. Walk in the fresh air, stand by the ocean a whiles. The sea had always been a marvel and a mystery to him.

He left the suite, being careful to remember the little playing card that was his key. Queen of spades. He toyed with it while he waited for the elevator, flipping it through his fingers as one might a coin. He dropped it and was stooping to pick it up when the bell rang and the elevator doors opened.

Penstemon was standing in the elevator, dressed casually in what they called jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. He nodded to James.

“Afternoon, Mr. Hickok. Going out?”

“Thought I might get some air.”

“My plan exactly. I'm going for a walk on the beach. Care to join me?”

“Right kind of you.”

James got in the elevator. He was getting used to it now, but he still took a good hold on the rails as it hummed along.

“You can do magic,” he said, looking at his host. “Why do you bother with this contraption? Can't you just put yourself where you want to be?”

Penstemon chuckled. “I could, but it requires expending more energy. This is easier in the long run.”

“So you save up your magic for the big things, that it?”

“That's it.”

The elevator stopped to let some more people on, two young gals with hair like corn silk, dressed in long green gowns that clung to their tender bodies in a most appealing way. They couldn't decide whether to stare at Penstemon or at James, so they looked back and forth between them and stifled giggles whenever they glanced at each other. That put a stop to any chance of conversation for the duration of the ride.

At the ground floor they all left, the girls going into the casino and Penstemon motioning James toward a wall of glass doors. A burst of giggling made the sorcerer pause and glance back.

“Dryads,” he said to James as they continued out through the doors held for them by invisible critters in uniform. “This is their first visit to the city. We've got a lot of first-timers this week.”

“That so?” said James, glancing up at the sky as they left the hotel and walked along a garden path. Must be later in the day than he'd thought. The sky was a deep, glowing blue. The air had a touch of chill to it—water nearby and a hint of the coming winter.

“Thanks to you,” Penstemon added. “And the others, of course, but I think it's mostly you. You're the headliner, Mr. Hickok. I hope I've made it clear how much I appreciate your being here.”

James reached out toward a bush covered with bright red roses, touching one to see if it felt real. It did, and he caught a whiff of its scent. He pulled a petal off and held it to his nose, soft and velvety.

“Kind of an odd thing to say, since I didn't have much choice about it.”

“True. I apologize for inconveniencing you. I assumed the chance of a new life would be welcome.”

“I suppose it is.”

Agnes would like these roses, James thought. She'd like this garden. She liked good things and civilized places, even though she'd traveled all over with her circus and seen some pretty mean little towns, like Abilene where they'd met.

“You ever been to Abilene, Mr. Penstemon?”

“Abilene, Kansas? No, I haven't.”

“I was wondering what it's like nowadays.”

“You were marshal there, correct?”

“For a while.”

Penstemon rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, it still exists, but I don't know much about it myself. The concierge could help you if you want to find out more.”

James waved a hand. “Just passing curious. Wondering if it was bigger now, with paved roads and all.”

“I'm sure it is.”

They were getting closer to the boardwalk. James could hear carnival music coming from somewhere ahead, and the smell of frying food hung in the air. Penstemon led him up to the back of a shack and through a door into it. As they passed from a dingy back room into a booth glaring with light James glimpsed a man aiming a pistol.

Without thought, he brought up his own weapon. Penstemon shouted. The other man dropped his gun, eyes wide with terror in the instant before he disappeared behind the counter at the front of the booth.

Penstemon's hands were on James's arm, pushing it down. “It's just a game, just a game! Sorry, I should have told you. Didn't think we'd catch anyone playing.”

James now saw the playing cards pinned to the back wall. A blonde girl was in the booth with them, skinny in black jeans and a black shift with “The Black Queen” tricked out on it in flashing paste jewels. She shot James a reproachful glance and went to coax her customer up from the ground. James holstered his gun and took a deep breath, waiting for the thunder in his heart to slow down.

The man got up and dusted himself off, eyes still wide, looking embarrassed and angry at once. He was maybe thirty, wore the usual jeans and t-shirt and a light jacket over them. James walked over and offered a hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “Misunderstanding. Thought you were drawing down on me.”

“Who the hell are
you
?” said the man indignantly. “You look like frigging Buffalo Bill Cody!”

James just smiled, and since the fellow didn't want to shake hands, he lowered his. Penstemon joined them, pulling a little slip of colorful paper from his pocket which he held out to the man.

“Here. Two free drinks at the Tropicana. Sorry about the confusion. Pick a dragon, too. On the house.”

The fellow took the slip and appeared to relax a little. “Thanks.” He glanced at the blonde girl, then pointed up at the colorful mass overhead. “I'll take that green one.”